Recently I attended an awards luncheon and was seated at a table of friendly not-quite-strangers, all of us in possession of the small talk gene, when I was asked, presumably because I am a writer, "What are you reading?" Rather than the truth, I mentioned a 2018 book that I had read when it was first published that was not unrelated to our previous conversation on contemporary Indigenous art, of which the couple seated across from me are collectors.
"Is there audio book?" the person seated next to me asked, and I said I didn't know. The person then went on to say that she prefers audio books because "listening allows me to do other things," to which I said I can't because in listening I am beholden to my imagination of the text and its layout, how it is punctuated, etc. Silence. "What I mean is, I am attracted to words on the page, like I am attracted to marks on a canvas."
"You were a musician once," said another, "so I presume you read music?" I said I can, and still do, and "that might be a better example than marks on a canvas."
"No," said the she-half of the couple, "I like your example -- words on a page like marks on a canvas. What is the title of the book again, and its author?"
"Heart Berries: A Memoir by Terese Marie Mailhot."
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